


Shudder, Release

by SunbunSky



Category: Cardfight!! Vanguard
Genre: Attempt at Feelings, Bullying, Developing Relationship, Disjointed, Fluff, Other, POV Outsider, POV Second Person, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-08 00:08:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11069934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunbunSky/pseuds/SunbunSky
Summary: A hand to lead a revolution.





	Shudder, Release

Your sole purpose is to serve your master.

He is nothing to the world. A single individual, in a crowd of billions brighter and more intense.

But he is the entirety of your universe, from the beginning of time and to the end of space, a figure defining you and the rest of your actions. Were he to defy the rest of the world, you would go with him; were he to suddenly vanish, you would follow suit.

You do not think. You do not speak. You do not see, feel, wonder, crave, imagine.

You only –

_live?_

– experience.

 

 

 

 

Your first memory is of wetness and warmth. Then, a sudden chill.

Your master wails pitifully, flailing around in a sticky film. You understand that he wants to go back (somewhere – you are still unsure of where exactly “where” _is_ ), but you are too weak, too inexperienced yet to help him with any task. Instead, you let him continue to cry out, grasping at nothing while figures loom above and light assaults your master and leaves him even more fearful of his fate. He continues sobbing, and time passes.

A new figure wraps around your master and lifts him in the air. You try reaching out more, searching for something that could help, but there is only air, empty and cold. He cries out more, and you flail with him, seeking something, anything, as long as it can help – 

He presses against something soft and warm. You push, and it vibrates, up and down, up and down. Hearing the chuckle, your master turns to face his creator, and finally calms down.

He is content. Your service is no longer needed.

You return to your state of dormancy.

 

 

 

 

On a typical morning, your master is awoken by a younger, shorter figure.

At some point, earlier on in your life (when exactly, who knows?), you become acquainted with her – your master’s younger sister. It is not uncommon for her to tousle him a bit, disturbing and waking you in the process. You do not blame her – he can be a heavy sleeper, and you are not much better with how reflexive it has become to turn off the alarm.

She returns downstairs after ensuring that he is awake. Stretching and yawning, your master sits up in his bed and takes one second…two seconds…three seconds……before finally crawling out of the warm sheets.

His feet pat gently against the wooden floor as he shuffles his way into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. You raise yourself to alertness as he rubs his eyes, slowly walking over to the sink.

No toilet then. Unnecessary for now, you suppose.

Really, it would be so much more convenient if you could communicate with his other parts.

You take his toothbrush, letting him apply a small squirt of paste, before rubbing it against his teeth. Circular motions, from the incisors to the molars, taking care to not dig in too harshly lest you harm his gums. Being too careful is less hazardous than being haphazard. But it goes without a hitch, and you take out the brush as he spits the foam out, gargling some water to wash out the rest of his mouth.

Your habitual motions continue forth. Turning on the faucet to wash his face. Changing from his pajamas to put on his uniform, grasping precisely at each button. Brushing against the wall as he descends the stairs to sit down at the dining table for breakfast.

A meal is already neatly arranged on a small tray, courtesy of his mother and little sister. You take the handle of the mug of coffee and raise it to his lips, waiting as he sips at it before placing it down and taking a hold of the utensils to eat. Your movements are slow, mirroring his as fatigue still hangs over you both.

Although you cannot taste it, your master seems to enjoy the food, or at least, he has no complaints. If he attempts to cook in the future, you shall join him in doing so. The action does not disturb you terribly – many in fact do not hold any meaning – though you would have no choice regardless. If your master wishes to do something, you will obey without question.

From the foyer, his sister calls out a warning to not be late for school.

His movements are a little quicker after that. You follow his urgency, making sure to swipe up everything quickly on the plate to stuff into his mouth. Although your master does not enjoy going, being late would give him no benefit, so both of you hasten to finish the routine.

Metal clatters against porcelain. He stands, and you grab his backpack as he rushes to shove his feet in his shoes.

You push the door open, and with a final shout indicating goodbye, he runs outside.

 

Rinse and repeat, every morning onward.

 

 

 

 

Bruises.

_It hurts – everywhere – your limbs ache –_

He tapes on bandages to last throughout the day.

The teachers all ignore him, you. (Useless)

You rise to try –

They laugh behind your back.

_Snicker, snicker, snort,_

– getting their attention, it fails to work, no one pays him even a glance – 

His mother gives him a worried stare, as she wraps her arms around him, around you.

_“What’s wrong?” they ask, and then –_

Stings of cold and alcohol;

Sister too young, should not see, cannot see.

_– knock him down, punch his stomach, kick his ribs and shatter his heart –_

(He cries.)

You lay beside him.

 

 

 

 

One day, you take a card.

Walking along a familiar road, you grasp your master’s backpack as he wanders back home, legs wobbling from their pain. The path is empty. No other people are in reach, yet he keeps his head down and his gaze planted firmly on the ground.

A lesson you have learned – less eye contact means less chance of a beating.

Though, as you have also learned, that rule is never a guarantee.

He passes by an intersection, where another child is squatting on the ground. They call out. He ignores it and continues forward; you grip the strap tighter.

He is stiff, wishes to walk faster. But that might invite even more –

They cut in front of you.

You tense up even as he lifts his head and accepts his fate.

If coordinated properly, you might be able to block an incoming punch. But the rest of him is still vulnerable, and there is always the chance you may fail.

The situation is too volatile.

You wait.

But the child does not pull their fist back, as your master had anticipated. Instead, they reach into their pocket, grasping something and extending it outward to him.

_“Here!”_

It is unexpected; a gift. They continue talking, but you do not pay attention to the words – you could not anyway – and instead await his response.

He looks at the image, the shiny foil, the warrior, the leader.

There is no hostility, nor fear. Only a slight, blooming curiosity, slowly taking root and twisting itself into his being.

You take the card.

_“Thank you.”_

 

 

 

 

Your master is pining.

Others around him notice his puppy crush at different intervals in his life.

Some realize as they watch him stare out the window with a glazed look in his eyes, looking far out while dreaming of a future where he could meet them once again. The teasing increases, more and more bruises littering his body, but he puts up with it all, pulling out the card when he is alone and imagining himself in a world where he can be strong. It does not solve the taunts, the pain, the loneliness. But it helps, ever so slightly.

Others realize only after they explode back into his life, bringing about a whirlwind of events that put him in even more situations of conflict and turmoil. He only pines harder, even as he realizes they have changed, even as he is rejected from the one he yearns for, even as he is defeated again and again while others more powerful loom above him.

But for once in his life, he can push back. He can stand up again and again, without a sinking feeling in his stomach because for once _he knows how to make it better_ , and it’s possible. Difficult, but doable.

It is exhilarating. Freeing.

He lets his heart out of its cage, and it flies endlessly toward the one it seeks the most.

You know of his feelings only a few days after the encounter, during a lecture that drones on endlessly while he stares off into the distance. He rests his chin against his left hand, and you tap the unused pencil against the equally unused notebook.

Time ticks by.

Not a single word about mathematics is added to the page.

Instead, he looks back at the paper, and you write carefully, precisely, in your neatest, most delicate form:

Kai Toshiki.

On another line – Kai Toshiki. On a different corner, Kai Toshiki. On a completely separate page devoid of anything related to the previous days’ notes; Kai Toshiki. Everywhere and anywhere you could find.

Kai Toshiki.

Kai-kun.

Toshiki-kun.

Toshi-kun.

Toshiki.

Toshiki Toshiki Toshiki Toshiki Toshiki Toshiki Toshi –

The bell rings.

He flushes and quickly closes his notebook – filled with multiple names, a single name, a single person – as the other students stand. You continue holding the pencil, and he waits for most of the class to filter out before daring to open the notebook again, now filled almost entirely with your scribbles.

His face reddens more, and he bites the pencil while you wait for him to finish his internal screaming.

After a pause, he flips to the last page, and you delicately write again – Kai Toshiki.

This time, you draw a heart around the name.

And then, next to it, the initials – S.A.

His heartbeat quickens, and he beams even as his face turns beat red. You close the notebook and place it gently, almost reverently, into his backpack, and zip it up.

He walks out of the classroom, still smiling.

They see his euphoria and grind it to dust.

 

 

 

 

You hold his deck in your grasp.

By this point, you have already lost count on how many times you have picked it up, placed it back down, shuffled, drawn, stood, ridden, called. All for him. His will is absolute, growing stronger, day by day, with each new opponent that stands before him. Some praise, others tremble; he experiences the joy of validation through battle.

They do not look at him, still.

Not enough, never enough.

_Not yet._

In the day, you hold his cards as he stares and adjusts them accordingly. Constantly shifting, changing the balance, power or trigger? You do not understand, only move. He builds his strategy, forms his desire, overwhelming, all-consuming.

At night, you scroll endlessly through pages on pages of text as he scans them thoroughly, taking in whatever insight he can find. A lamp illuminates the darkening sky as he types up possible builds, ignoring the final calls of goodnight from his family, from the world. He needs to grow, to become worthy of acknowledgement, from them.

You click through more pages.

On some nights, after you have already drawn and wielded his deck, he collapses onto his bed and looks through his phone instead. His eyelids feel heavy, his mind fatigued. You, also, have already used up the remains of your energy.

On those nights, he lets himself rest, and you let him indulge in his fantasies.

He looks for pictures of them.

Flushing, smiling.

You stroke the screen.

 

 

 

 

He wishes for strength, to reach the one he wants most.

The knights talk to him, speak sultry words and whisper promises into his ears. Assurances of victory, plans of triumph, the guiding light toward a path that exists to serve him.

Blue and white exist at his beck and call.

(Purple, black?)

Your master, their Vanguard.

 

 

 

 

He falls, and they reach for you.

For him.

 

 

 

 

They turn away.

 

 

 

 

You clutch an unfamiliar deck of warriors and rogues.

They lead you to victory. One after another.

Tools for you. For him.

To reach them again.

(For once?)

 

 

 

 

They stand in front of him, unyielding, powerful. Arms crossed, feet shoulder-width apart, gaze resolute. A fighter.

Yet he feels stronger, more capable, could crush them beneath his feet. They have taken what he has thrown away, abandoned. Not enough, not for him. He needs to be tougher, more powerful, even compared to them. More force, prestige, willpower, enough to make them bow before him and acknowledge his presence.

(He is starving.)

You caress the cards, figures of shadow and malice as his weapons. Magic runs through your veins, your being, his existence. This new power, that which few others have, is your guide. His leader.

_We serve you, our Vanguard._

The dragon roars.

He cackles.

_“I’m strong now!”_

You touch the black knight, turn the card to attack. He can see it, the leap, the slash, the fall.

Their defeat.

His victory.

You can only obey, act as your master wishes and wills it to be. He sees all and yet nothing, an illusion of his greatest desires manifesting while reality crumbles around him. Surrounded by shadows and empty promises. Loneliness.

They stare at him, your master.

A wall.

(A hand?)

_“Guard.”_

 

 

 

 

They reach out to him.

_“Your deck.”_

_(“I’m sorry I couldn’t help you.”)_

He reaches back.

_(“Let’s keep doing our best.”)_

 

 

 

 

In the evening, underneath the twinkling lights and beside the crashing of the ocean waves, he stares back at the image of himself in the mirror, thinking, remembering.

Fireworks still explode in the back of his mind, a reminder of the words exchanged between them, alone under the starry sky. He is still standing on the earth, light years away from their level. But he is getting closer still, more and more, pushing forward so he can finally touch that glowing light and properly stand beside them.

You turn on the faucet and brush his teeth, go through a habitual routine.

Perhaps, in another world, he would be strong enough to always reach them, say proudly to himself and others that he was a challenge to them, someone worthy of note, a rival. Oppose them in his earliest days, welcome them as a fellow fighter, gaze at them in battle with pride and confidence.

(Reach for their arm as they leave, ask to spend time together outside of the shop, run his fingers through their hair and brush their face as everything else fades into the background –)

But that world does not exist for him. He is still a novice compared to them, compared to others who surround them. Throw him into the midst of other fighters, and they would still turn away and seek a different person for their cause. He is not capable of such attention yet, being so small. Others would accomplish the task better, faster, more precisely.

He understands, and accepts it.

Your reality is to accompany him, and his reality is to grow into the person he can become.

He has crawled his way to where he is now, flailing in confusion and struggling with his own incompetence and inexperience. What once demanded intense thought now only requires a passing glance, and the hours spent building and planning simple techniques are instead filled with puzzling over sequences of moves and experimenting with balance.

He is better than he was before.

For his team, for them.

For himself.

You turn off the water, and he walks out of the bathroom and into his room, idly drying his hair in small, circular motions. After a minute, he drops the towel on his bed, takes the deck case resting on top of his pillow, exits the room –

(you follow suit)

– and nearly crashes into them.

He fumbles, stuttering out an apology as you clutch his cards and fidget beside him. They stare down, but he does not raise his head to match their gaze, preferring to instead look down at the floorboards and nibble at the inside of his mouth.

They respond, short and clipped, but your master relaxes and nods all the same. In the next second, he frowns determinedly. You hold up his deck, and he makes a promise to get stronger, to reach his full potential and rise to victory.

A pause.

They nod.

You clasp the deck holder tighter in your grip, and he beams, eyes sparkling. Something softens in their face, just for a moment, and then they turn away to walk back to their room.

Their hand brushes against his, and he flushes.

His heart, warm in his chest, skips a beat.

You feel a renewed vigor in his steps, a smile dancing at the corners of his lips. He plops himself down onto a chair and lays his deck before him, a new yet increasingly familiar set of warriors adorned in white and gold. You accompany him, adjusting, changing, ensuring that he can become someone of the ideal.

In the morning, you pick up a card, and he finds his answer.

 

 

 

 

He surrounds himself with new fighters and old faces, gathering a team into his hands and out to the world.

You hold a flyer as he stands at his school entrance, wide-eyed and welcoming. His voice reverberating with a bright lilt, inviting any passerby to take interest in his case.

_“Please join the Cardfight Club!”_

In the end, there are only four others.

But he continues, past the barriers that stand before him, past the challengers that face the team, past the disappointments, the triumphs, the bygone memories.

In combat, facing toward the future.

A leader.

 

 

 

 

They’re gone.

They’re gone they’re gone th _ey’re gone they’re g **one they’re gone they’re gONE THEY’RE GONE THEY’RE GONE THEY’RE GON**_

 

 

 

 

He stares.

His reflection gazes back.

(Take up your blade, and fight.)

 

 

 

 

_Red and black, swirling._

His body, wracked with pain.

They watch him suffer, dismissal dripping from his eyes; leave.

You grasp his chest.

 

_Lock._

 

 

 

 

_And liberate._

 

 

 

 

From a crumbling rooftop, your master descends with them in tow.

His body screams at him, adrenaline wearing off and fatigue settling into his joints and muscles. The pace is slow. You push against the wall in a weak attempt to give some support, but your strength is not much better, and you can do nothing to help his quivering legs and weary mind.

Exhaustion sinks into your being, the remains of vigor from his knights dissipating as the ring disintegrates and collapses in the sky above. His limbs tremble, fighting to stay upright as he rushes down to the exit. The ground quakes, and you twinge.

Time is running out.

His legs can barely move.

Past the stairs, he trips over a loose piece of rubble and grunts, toppling over helplessly. You try to reach out for something, but you cannot grasp anything, the floor is too close –

An arm shoots out and catches his weight.

Their chest is warm against his back, heart pounding in its cage and pressed against him.

He looks back to offer his thanks, but they turn away, quickly removing their hand once your master regains his footing. He frowns. You lift yourself to try and touch their arm, get their attention, but they pull away and walk forward, away from reach.

Fear, self-loathing.

A chasm opens wider.

He realizes, and runs.

You slam into their back, clawing at their shirt as they jerk forward and turn back to look at him in confusion. He pants, breaths airy and loud, drowned out by the rumbling echoes of the building in shambles. Chaos. The remnants of desperation and longing.

A promise.

Your master gasps, and your grip tightens.

_Thump-thump, thump-thump._

Their heartbeat pulses.

 

 

 

 

He takes their wrist, and leads them forward.

 

 

 

 

Everything is cold.

He sits unmoving, eyes closed.

_– footsteps, echoing far away –_

You feel nothing.

_A traveling knight, a seeking dragon,_

_Flames burning the world to ash –_

Neither wind nor sun;

No life.

_(Pain, pain, it hurts it hurts it hurts it hurts)_

Whispering, around him.

Passion, bitterness, ignorance, cold as ice.

(Oaths made, broken;

Linking to another)

A forgotten tragedy.

_– where are you?_

He sits, and waits.

_“I don’t want to see you.”_

(Forever?)

_“Will you watch over my sealed form?”_

(For the one?)

 

 

 

 

Hell burns a scorching path to your master.

You let go, of his will, of their sin, of the cold, lonely future.

He falls –

– into warmth.

 

 

 

 

In the background, a bright, jazzy tune plays softly from the radio.

The melody is almost entirely drowned out by the sounds in front of him, the sizzling in the pan and the rushes of wind from the overhead vents.

You hold a cookbook open as your master gazes at it and then back to the pan, frowning. He stares at the words some more, scanning them thoroughly, before you place the book down and pick up a small metal spatula instead. He grips the pan handle. You stir the ingredients together, stiff and jerkish in your movements.

After a few whisks, you reach up for the jar of salt and sprinkle in a pinch. His nose wrinkles – _is it supposed to smell like that?_ – and you continue mixing diligently.

By his side, the steady sound of chopping follows the rhythm of the music, perfect triplets in time with each beat. With precision, the onions are scraped into a larger bowl, and a large carrot is brought onto the cutting board. In time with the music, chopping again.

He looks over, gaping at their ease and fluency, and pouts.

They smirk in return.

(An addition to your weekly routine.)

Slightly tempted to stick his tongue out, he resists the urge and turns back to the meal he promised he would try to make, glaring as if his stare could magically turn the dish into a masterpiece. You keep on mixing, more forcefully this time. Broader movements, faster strokes.

A piece of meat flies out of the pan.

His lips flatten out into a straight line, and he grasps the handle tighter. Grimaces. You place the spatula onto the table and grip the pan with him, securing your hold, and flip the ingredients.

A quarter of the stir-fry falls to the floor.

Turning their head, they make a noise that sounds suspiciously like a chuckle.

He groans, frowning at the hints of a smile on their face, failing to stay completely displeased at the other’s amusement as he tries to avoid stepping on the newly made mess on the ground. Reaching over, they turn off the stove flame and move the handle facing inward before getting the mop out of their storage cupboard.

Three assurances, a cleaned-up spill, and forty minutes later, he sets the dishes onto the table.

Your limbs are cramped after the new activity, the chopsticks strangely heavy, and he drops his mouthful of rice a countless number of times to the point where they ask if he would rather use a spoon instead. He refuses the offer, leaning on their shoulder for comfort, legs intertwined.

The meal is far from perfect – a third of it ended up on the counter and the rest is either slightly burnt, salted heavily, or strangely goopy – but they still eat everything put on their plate. The actual result is passable at best. He preens inwardly, regardless.

On the radio, the last song of the playlist sounds its final note, and the announcer reports details of the day in a low monotone. An incoming thunderstorm, traffic on the nearest highways, details on how to donate and become a sponsor to support the station. The date and time, a moment of summer as similar as the rest.

They will leave, soon.

Not yet, not as they had before, when they still sought for strength alone because that was the only path they could take to reach their goal. No so suddenly as he had previously, when he still thought it necessary to sacrifice himself and save so many others he cared for. Not as the first moments of evolution, when they were taken away and abandoned by those closest while he was isolated and left to wallow in loneliness and despair.

But time stops for no human, and he is only mortal.

No matter how much you reach, you will never change that.

To keep them by his side forever would be cruel, caged with someone walking along a separate path as they rot away with their potential. Likewise, he cannot depend on them as a guide for the rest of his life, constantly searching for them as his reason for pushing forward. Neither would seek any fulfilment, surviving in that way.

In the end, though he has found them and they have pursued him, the world will split the two again. It would be strangely humorous, were it not so palpable.

A new song, upbeat and cheerful, breaks his train of thought. He jolts upward, making them turn to face him, inquisitive.

It is unfamiliar. You tap his leg to the rhythm of the music.

Something unlocks in his mind, a new concept, a novel emotion.

A beginning.

He grabs their hand, you take the other, and drags them to the center of the room.

They start, give a small complaint of surprise. Confusion soon takes over, and they frown, brows furrowed and eyes questioning.

He smiles, teasing, and twirls.

In the middle of a small apartment, together with another, he lets himself free. Around and around, he laughs while they protest half-heartedly, happiness unmistakable with attention in their footsteps and light in their gaze. The music plays on, he jumps, they stomp, he spins around, they take his wrists, he dips them with faux bravado before collapsing to the floor in a fit of giggles. Constantly touching, feeling his hair, their palms, his heartbeat, their warmth.

You stroke (he caresses) their face, brings his forehead to theirs as the pair gasps for breath on the hardwood floor, breaths mingling, noses brushing at the tips. They look back, at him, and something blossoms in his heart, familiar, overwhelming. Hints of longing, unspoken promises, ties to a future in which neither will walk alone.

Physical separation is inevitable. They are older, he is changing, both have different aspirations and dreams of maturity.

But in the chaos and ambiguity of what is to come, he embraces them, is embraced by them, and falls into the dawn of a new era.

 

 

 

 

_“I’m sure at some point…”_

_“…our paths will cross.”_

 

 

You let go.

**Author's Note:**

> For those who saw, yes [those](https://sunbunsky.tumblr.com/post/161196464280/sunbunsky-i-started-writing-something-last-night) [posts](https://sunbunsky.tumblr.com/post/161298127845/sunbunsky-im-regret-there-was-a-reason-why-i) were about this fic
> 
> Okay so ORIGINALLY I wanted to write something about Kai being Aichi's right hand because I started watching Parasyte videos at 1 in the morning, but then I started writing this thing and it turned serious? And the voice didn't sound like Kai at all? So I turned it into bad pining instead from the viewpoint of Aichi's right hand, now you know where the hell that strange POV comes from
> 
> If you wanna watch Parasyte, it's pretty cool. Warnings for gore and body horror, but if you can stand that sort of stuff, it might be interesting, I dunno. There's a penis hand at one point
> 
> So yeah, if you were confused by which pronouns referred to who (because I can't ever use names apparently), Aichi uses he/him, Kai uses they/them, and Aichi's right hand is "you" throughout. They/them is also used for some other people sometimes, but that's generally when it's plural for multiple people or units
> 
> Also completely unrelated to the story itself but HAPPY PRIDE MONTH!!!!! LET'S ALL CELEBRATE ANOTHER YEAR BEING QUEER YEAAHHHHHH


End file.
